Lunchbox Poems

I want to erase your footprints

from my walls. Each pillow

is thick with your reasons. Omens

fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman

in a party hat, clinging

to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows

creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, ‘Stop!’

and I close my eyes. I can’t watch

as this town slowly empties, leaving me

strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes

on a line, the white handkerchief

stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus

rips open his shirt

to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,

the way he points to it. I’m afraid

the way I’ll miss you will be this obvious.

I have a friend who everyone warns me

is dangerous, he hides

bloody images of Jesus

around my house, for me to find

when I come home; Jesus

behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked

into the mirror. He wants to save me

but we disagree from what. My version of hell

is someone ripping open his shirt

and saying, Look what I did for you…

NICK FLYNN